


Making a Monster

by neonbees



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Crestless!Sylvain, Family Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by @tanawwww on twitter's fanart, M/M, Mentions of Ingrid & Dimitri, Monster!Sylvain, Transformation, Violence, thats what this is, tho its really me making up some crest lore for sylvain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-09-07 07:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20306038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonbees/pseuds/neonbees
Summary: Sylvain doesn't inherit the Gautier Crest. He's to wield the Lance of Ruin anyway.





	1. Awakening

Occasionally, there is a very rare, entirely under researched phenomenon that can occur within the passage of crests. Major and minor are the two most common types of inheritance, but there is also a third occurance - a crest ‘imprint’. It is described as if there should be a crest there- but there is not. It is shown with distorted answers to crest testing, but other effects are not known. 

\---

There is great debate within the House of Gautier. It started when Sylvain was born- the second child, the hope to be the heir. Miklan had still held the title, but he’d long since known that when a crest-baring child was born it would pass from him. Their father had pinned his hopes on this second child, only for this _mutation_ to occur. An imprint had not been tested with a relic- Sylvain might be able to handle it, he might not. Trial was the only way forward.

When he was tall enough to wield a lance, he was brought to an open field, and made to use it. Thirteen was old enough for Sylvain to realize what would happen if he failed. And what would happen if he succeeded. Hatred by his brother, or hatred by his father. Little choice but to try and hope he would succeed. 

He was glad, at least, that none of his friends were around to watch. Ingrid wouldn’t like it. She looked after him, in her own way. And Felix- this wasn’t something he could protect Felix from. 

The Lance of Ruin was far too heavy for a boy of thirteen to wield effectively. Yet he took it with both his hands, the material cold underneath his sweaty palms. Out to the battlefield, with many a knight to watch. Better to happen here, than to have need of the relic on the battlefield and test Sylvain’s imprint where great casualty could occur. 

He shifted into a battle stance, biting his lips nervously. Not like anyone could see the gesture. Sylvain could feel the pulsating power now, like holding his hand over an open flame. It reached up to lick at his palms as if testing him. Would he pull away or push closer into the fire. 

Sylvain let out a cry, activating the lance and attacking the training dummy. To successfully perform the art, he’d need much more practice- but his father had wanted him to try. And so he did. The lance pulsed under his hands, burning now, reaching up within him. It’s power, malevolent and violent and fierce, crackled through him, searching. He couldn’t tell whether or not he was screaming. 

The power exploded out of him, back through the lance, a bastardization of Ruined Sky- annihilating the dummy in front of him. It had been a success for others to see. But for Sylvain, hunched over on the cold training ground, unaware but for the ringing in his ears and the beating of his own hair, it didn’t feel like one. As he felt the Gautier’s knights arms go around him, one more sensation swept through him. That of the malevolent power, curling around his heart. 

\---

Two years passed.

“Congratulations, Sylvain, heir of House Gautier.” 

The day of the ceremony was the day Miklan stopped talking to him. 

In another world, Sylvain had never had his brother’s affection- what was worse? To have and then to have it taken away? Or to never have a taste of brotherly love at all? 

He snuck out to the vault that night. Was it some desire to be punished for losing his brothers affection (he hadnt choosen this) or perhaps something within him out, he didn’t know. But regardless, Sylvain stood in front of the lance of ruin, the crest stone within glowing a vibrant red. Dark, oozing matter began to grow, rising from the crest like some foreign creature, seeking him out. 

Sylvain felt something within him catch fire. Was it his own choice to reach out and touch the dark liquid? He couldn’t tell. The dark liquid covered his hand, and he muffled a scream as his bones _groaned_, hand twisting and growing, claws scraping the ground as Sylvain reached out with his fingers, trying to hold onto something, anything - _ this energy was going to eat him alive- _

“Sylvain? Are you there?” Young, high pitched- Felix’s voice was one Sylvain would instantly recognize, through pain and sorrow. The Fraldarius family had been there for the ceremony- Felix had been sleeping in the room adjacent to his. And he’d always been a light sleeper, Glenn had often bemoaned that fact. He couldn’t get up to anything with Felix around. 

And no doubt, Felix had followed him here. 

He couldn’t see Felix like this. It was Sylvain’s only thought. Not Felix- Felix was the one who came to _him_ when he was in pain, not the other way around. How could he protect him like this? 

His teeth felt too big for his mouth. If he spoke, would he cut himself? If he pushed Felix away, would his claws sink into his best friend’s flesh? He looked down, one hand transformed, the other still human. “I don’t want you to see me like this-” his voice broke, caught in his own throat. 

His body hurt. 

And then, something warm against his back. Felix, twelve, arms around him, grounding Sylvain. The pulse of power running through his body didn’t seem so brutal. He was still here. 

Eventually, the black ooze left him- not completely, Sylvain could tell- but enough. His hand looked bruised, nearly mangled- but it was human. Five fingers. One palm. “I’m sorry,” he managed, “I’m sorry.” It was an apology in two parts. One to Felix, and one to Miklan. 

Felix rode back with Glenn and Rodrigue in the morning. They didn’t talk. And within the next few months, the King and Queen were dead, fighting erupting across the northern coast of Faerghus. There was no time for talking, then. Not with ghosts speaking so much more loudly. 

At fifteen, almost sixteen, Sylvain was old enough to fight- this was why he had been tested with the lance. For times like this. With every gallon of blood spilt, the beast in him grew stronger. But it never emerged- not like it had that time in the Armory. 

It emerged in little ways. It strengthened his strikes- in his hands, the lance was brutal. Rebellions were put down with too much force. His hands were red as his hair, and there was a taste for blood in the pit of his stomach that he _despised_. Worst of it was that Sylvain could not tell who was the beast: the lance in his hands, or him? 

There were no friends on the battlefield. Miklan fought adjacent to him, but never together. Felix and Ingrid were both too young, Dimtri’s wounds too fresh. Still, Felix wrote letters to him. Sylvain never described the horror of war, wanting to shelter the younger. And yet, he could tell that his best friend was different. The death of Glenn haunted them all. 

It was not a problem until the heat of war died down. It was in the peacetime that the monster within Sylvain threatened to break lose. He woke up occasionally with shredded sheets- As if massive claws had scraped them to pieces. When he stayed with women, he learned to be very, very careful. 

The Lance of Ruin had its name for a reason, Sylvain knew. It’s power was stored inside him, filling that imprint of a crest like a mold that had been made for it. Sometimes he wondered how long it would be until it burst. 

It was a relief when he was accepted into the Officer’s Academy. He would not bring the relic weapon- the farther away from it, the quieter the beast seemed to be. 

Everything would be okay. 

Maybe if he repeated it to himself enough, it would become true.


	2. With Hands Outstretched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update, happy halloween! 
> 
> tw: miklan, canon-compliant levels of violence/sylvain trauma. 
> 
> also : @tanawwww did this ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS piece for the first chapter and. please look. i adore everything about it....  
https://twitter.com/tanawwww/status/1163482832196403200

Coming to the monastery is like stepping into a faded memory. Miklan had never attended. He’d lost the chance when Sylvain had taken his title as heir. But when he sees Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix all together, he can feel the shadow of his once-brother too. 

There is no well in Sylvain’s past. What there is is silence where there was once laughter. A twist of his fingers, tight and painful, where once his hand would have been held. ‘_Like this, Sylvain_’, Miklan had said, showing him where to hold tight to the lance, ‘_Give me your hands._’

Miklan does not try and kill him, but he has killed any affection for Sylvain, and isn’t that enough?

He doesn’t like to think about it. It’s like that black ooze, lurking within him, poisoning his thoughts. Did Miklan ever like him? Was he just some thing he could take pride over, feel good about because at least Sylvain with his half-crest didn’t mean anything (until it did). 

Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix, and him had all planned to attend together, a promise made and kept from childhood. There’s a color in these new memories he makes. 

The professor is interesting, for one, bringing a shock of blue-green color where they go. Sylvain’s not part of the mock battle, but he sits on the sidelines and watches. 

Felix fights with Dimitri and Dedue and Mercedes, and he wishes he was out there. There’s a taste for blood with him, a constant companion that begs violence. He squeezes his fingers into his legs, and turns to Ingrid instead. “Look at them go- who do you think will win? Any bets?” He offers her a smile. It doesn’t make him feel any better, but his smiles have never been for him anyways. 

She scoffs, but turns an assessing eye to the field, “Of course I’ll support our own house. Still, with an unknown like the professor… It’s hard to tell. But they saved his Highness. There is some skill there.”

Annette chimes in- Sylvain startles, though he hides it. He tilts his body to her, because she’s an unknown, doesn’t know what he is. “Of course I’m rooting for us. I know Mercie’s really good with magic. We were at the Academy together! Oh, I wish I could help.” She wiggles with anticipation, fists clenched and eyes bright, “I want to show off my training! I worked really hard to get here, and I want everyone to know it!”

The other boy- Ashe- joins the conversation too, and soon they’re all chatting away. Sylvain’s glad, because with more people the less effort he has to put in to talk. He’s not big on that type of thing: effort and trying and trying to make something of himself. 

His father’s expectations are already a chain around his neck. The lance is always above him, a guillotine in wait.

Sylvain tries to keep himself from getting to close. It’s not that hard. He’s good with words, always has been, and if he keeps everything on the surface, no one will think of what’s underneath. 

He uses his flirtations like it’s a personality and he skips training like it’s a lifestyle.  
The have their first battle as a class, a real one this time. For some students it’s their first brush with death. It’s hard to keep himself apart, after that. Sylvain can’t help it. Before, when it was just him and Ingrid and Dimitri and Felix, all one word, all inseparable, he’d always been the one to watch out for them. His responsibility as the oldest, of course. 

So he watches out for them, when he can. He’s glad for Mercedes. She has the strength to reach out and take the hands of those in need. Sylvain can stay far. His hands only hurt. 

(he thinks about how felix reached out to him in the past. how he held him and brought him back. he looks at felix now, and thinks, i should have been that for you.) 

The missions get harder. Not just in combat- their professor can teach, surprise surprise, but in what they have to accomplish. They learn of Ashe’s connection to the Lord they now have to face. 

Killing your heroes is hard, Sylvain thinks. He wishes he still had one. 

It might be Felix, if he had to pick. He’s rude, yes, and violent and trains way too hard at all times, but he tries. He knows who he is, through and through. Felix Hugo Fraldarius. He wants to protect and he wants to fight, and he’s _honest_ with what his desires.

Sylvain doesn’t want to think about what he wants, and he’ll keep it that way. What he wants is never important to anyone, least of all himself.

One thing turns into another, and it’s an avalanche in the making. It reminds Sylvain of the calm before the storm, back in Gautier territory. The silence before winter snows hit, hard and furious and trapping him in a castle with a family who don’t see him and a brother who sees him far too well. 

The black ooze in his blood wakes when he realizes the professor has a crest and a weapon that recognizes and listens to them. 

They’d talked, one on one, and Sylvain had heard about how they hadn’t even known that they’d had a crest- it hadn’t ever ruled their life. 

His jealousy was violent. He felt the prick of claws on his palms. Later, Sylvain washed his hands over and over again, trying to scrub the beast out from within him. Stay calm, stay collected. Don’t let anything bother you. The lance was safe inside the family vault, far away from him. 

The Verdant Rain Moon rises, and with it comes the rain. 

Miklan steals the Lance of Ruin. 

The professor and his class are charged with retrieving it. 

Sylvain’s not sure how the month passes. He doesn’t remember much of it. It’s fragmented in his mind, sharp snippets of blood-red-pain as he trains for something he’s afraid of reaching. He remembers water licking at damaged palms. Avoiding training for far too long, then pushing himself far too much. Miklan’s hands, guiding his. ‘_Like this, Sylvain, how did I get such a stupid younger brother,_’

He remembers sweet-gold-pleasure, his room is not where he wants to be, so he’s out late into the night, the yellow-haired woman on his arm ducking into his chest as they pass under flickering torchlight. He remembers his hands on her body, fingers in her hair, pulling at gold and hoping it’s enough to distract him from the red shadow looming in him, over him. 

His body stains blue and black. Their class had routed a group of bandits in the middle of the month. He’d taken hits he hadn’t meant to. He’d broken his lance too soon, orders disregarded in the black rage in his heart. He’d seen Felix watching him, dark blue hair and amber eyes narrowed. Sylvain doesn’t bother thinking about what Felix sees him as. He knows. 

Dimitri might have been savage, made brutal by his ghosts- but where Felix sees him as an animal, Sylvain thinks he’s the most human of them all. Sylvain can hear him from his room, sometimes. Words he can never quite make out, and when morning comes, there’s no room for nightmares. 

The morning of the mission comes, and dawn is a soft grey light over Garreg Mach. Clouds stand thick and heavy in the sky, blocking the full strength of the sun. It smells like rain. “Will you be alright, Sylvain?” 

The professor’s voice shows how close she’d gotten without him realizing. Sylvain smiles, lips tight, “Of course, professor.”

The rain comes, as does the abandoned tower. It’s not a pleasant journey, but finishing it is the worst part. The rumble of thunder feels like the growl of some dread monster. He wonders if the noise of it all will drown his thoughts out. They stop just before the tower, Gilbert sharing his knowledge with the Professor and Dimitri. Sylvain wonders what made Miklan choose now of all times to steal the Lance. Why Sylvain always ends up running towards it. 

“It looks like they destroyed those villages purely for pleasure.” Dimitri’s stance is set, brow furrowed. ‘No matter what their reasons may be, that sort of behavior cannot be allowed. Ever.” He looks so focused in his fury that Sylvain has to interject. 

“Don’t worry about those lowlives, Your Highness. It’s wasted effort.” He may not know why Miklan has stolen the Lance now, but he knows what it means. There is no going back from this. He feels something stir in his gut at the thought of it. Sylvain’s smile is thin, but it doesn’t matter. 

Dimitri looks at him regardless, seeing what he wants. “Sylvain… The thieves’ leader, the one who stole the Relic… Word has it he’s your older brother. I know he’s disowned, but… ” 

"He is no longer a member of house Gautier... or my brother. He's nothing more than a common thief.” 

“Are you sure about that?” his prince asks, like Sylvain’s wont to find some reason to say no to this, like he needs some excuse to find goodness in his not-brother. He has those faded memories. It was Miklan’s choice to burn them. It’s not about what Sylvain wants, he doesn’t get that. “It would be understandable to find this situation... well, regrettable-”

He can’t help it. He cuts in, bitter to his core, acid on his tongue. “You know we’re far past the point of regret. It always falls on the younger brother to clean up the mistakes of their elders, doesn't it?" Sylvain does not wait for an answer. This is not something for the rest of the class to question. Sylvain keeps them all at an arm’s length for a reason. They won’t like what’s at the end of it. 

The tower is a mess of twists and turns and crumbling architecture. It feels like a maze made to trap them, though Sylvain knows that’s only a projection. Around and around they go- every floor, Sylvain wonders if it’s the end. It isn’t. Not until Gilbert calls out, “The enemy is close by. We’re almost to the top floor.”

“They are merely thieves, but they have a Hero’s Relic. Do not drop your guard.” 

“Don’t hold back for my sake,” Sylvain says, but the words are hollow in his mouth. He wondered if he had asked- would anything change? He can feel his classmates staring at him. When he has a moment, he checks if his hands are still human. He wonders if it’s so obvious what’s inside him. Sylvain should be better at hiding. But with every enemy they fell, they get closer and closer to the truth. 

Miklan stands alone in the last room. The highest of all places, above everyone else. 

“Why have you come, you fool?” Sylvain’s not sure what he expected. He can’t recall the last time Miklan called him by his name. Before the inheritance rites? Rage boils in him, flooding his veins with a cursed adrenaline that spirals into his head and heart. Miklan’s jealousy is so _stupid_. It’s the most foolish thing, because he knows Sylvain’s never wanted it to come to this. 

Miklan lashes out and hurts those around him, tearing down anything in reach, and running towards what isn’t. He doesn’t need claws to damage. Sylvain thinks of the way he and his bandits had pillaged the surrounding villages. It’s not just purely for pleasure, like Dimitri had said. Well- perhaps the others. But Sylvain knows Miklan. Knows how he works. His not-brother cannot stand for anyone to have something he feels should be his. It’s not about wanting someone to hurt. It’s about making someone realize they should have never had something in the first place. 

Still, he is Sylvain’s brother. Sylvain has no time for regrets. But he wonders if Miklan ever regrets teaching him how to wield a lance. It had been different when there had been no greater weapon for him than the steel. 

“I’m here for the Lance of Ruin, Miklan. Hand it over. I don’t want to humiliate you, but I will.” His grip tightens on his weapon as he shifts his foot back, lowering his body into a stance. Sylvain knows how this will end. 

“Humiliate me? Hmph. You can do nothing! If it hadn’t been for you-” Miklan sneers, scar across his face twisting an ugly expression into something worse. “You’re not better than me. I can wield the Lance- I could have been wielding it all this time!” There’s a wild, fierce look in his eyes. “You’re the spare- why did they still make you the heir?” 

It’s precisely because of that, Sylvain thinks. He was tested because of his imprint, though his crest will never activate, not like it needs to- he’ll never be good enough. Not for his father, not for Miklan. “Shut up!” he hisses, and his own mind screams at him, “It’s not my fault, it never has been.”

“You took everything from me!”

“I took _nothing_! I didn’t want any of this!” He just wants Miklan to realize that. To know that. He has the inheritance of the Gautier house, and he has the duty of fixing Miklan’s messes. It means killing him. He is the beast of burden- his brother is only human. 

Miklan’s weak enough from their professors earlier strikes that Sylvain can see his end laid out before him. His brother’s movements are sloppy. The Gautier style mixed with the rage of a bandit. The Lance of Ruin scrapes him, while Sylvain’s own weapon sinks into Miklan’s side.

“Not bad,” Miklan spits, and the expression strikes Sylvain. “_Not bad, Sylvain_”, his brother says, “_You’ll be a great knight for me one day._” Miklan grips the Lance tighter, the thing moving and wriggling and glowing and- Sylvain recognizes it. He knows what happens next.  
“Give me the Lance,” Sylvain desperately demands, but it’s too late. The dark liquid oozes out, and it's so much more quick than when it had happened to him. He didn’t think- he should have- fragmented thoughts have no answer for him, and he feels something wet under his fingernails. The ooze snakes up his not-brother’s arm and Miklan screams. 

He can’t stop himself. He reaches out- _Miklan’s hand, guiding his_\- and the black ooze reaches back for him instead. The guillotine above him snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me when writing this : is the guillotine metaphor period accurate? do i care?  
i swear... there will comfort in this hurt/comfort soon. 
> 
> i spent way too much time thinking about miklan + sylvain's relationship in this. im still thinking about it, actually.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by : https://twitter.com/tanawwww/status/1162781499613044736 
> 
> I'd been wanting to write a Beauty & The Beast fic for Dimitri/Byleth. But then i saw monster Sylvain on Twitter, and I rlly wanted to write this instead. Some of this is inspired by Marianne's paralogue.


End file.
